The Unfortunate Thing About Airships
by xXLiquidSugarXx
Summary: Is that there's no way of escape. A 2011 what would happen if Rochefort did manage to shoot D'Artagnan during the airship battle, and the aftermath.
1. Chapter 1

_Liquid Sugar here, just wanting to say hello._

_I have never read the original book, surprisingly enough, but I fell in love with the movie when I saw it. I think this may become a "what would've happened if?" series. Anyways, enjoy!_

The diamonds tinkled cheerily on his belt, not at all reflecting the plight of their barer as D'Artagnan ran through the belly of the Cardinal's large airship. This whole thing for some lousy, gaudy jewelry that the fashion-obsessed King had to buy for Queen Anne on their anniversary. Probably the latest craze in somewhere remote, like Austria. It had seemed a good idea at the time to prove himself by accepting a request from a beautiful girl and go gallivanting on a wonderful adventure with three of his heroes, but now he was stuck on a ship five hundred feet in the air –during a thunderstorm no less- that was taking heavy damage from those same three men and beautiful girl. If he wasn't so cocky, and so desperate to prove himself to be a decent and brave sort of man to Constance, he might have thought rationally about chasing the Queen's jewels across the channel and back in only five days.

But no, he was never one for using his head, and what he now deemed to be a very small brain inside it, in the right situations. D'Artagnan just _had_ to go after the diamonds.

The Cardinal's guards were fought off with barely a thought as he ran. His body was going through the practiced motions of flipping and wrestling and swordplay as his mind worked frantically. D'Artignan knew he had no way off of the airborne ship, no place to hide, and no idea where he was heading, but he knew he Rochefort was coming for him with –what he deemed- an unprovoked vengeance, and meeting him face to face would end in his own (probably painful) death. Lady Luck kissed him goodbye as he came to a small wooden door at the rear of the ship with a very big iron lock on one of the cannon decks. Unless he returned the way he came, it was his only way out of the room. He pulled and pushed, even slammed his shoulder into it, but the wood wouldn't give and nor would the lock break. Slow footsteps sounded behind D'Artignan and with panic beat wildly and fast, he turned.

The words exchanged between them were lost in the thundering pound of his heartbeat as D'Artagnan put on a brave face at Rochefort's raised guns and cold glare. He knew it was here that he would meet his untimely end. Alone in the floating lair of his enemy and without his friends by his side or anyone who could say he met an honorable end. He could argue that it had been a good first -and only- adventure, that at least Athos and the others could tell Father that he had died bravely, that his only son had died on a noble mission for the crown and keeping the peace in the King's palace. If retrieving a stolen necklace was considered a noble and important deed.

At least they could say that he, D'Artagnan, the unknown boy from an unknown town, was in favor with Louis XIII, King of France. That he had met many important people and seen the heart of the kingdom before his murder.

All too soon, their conversation was over. The time for taunts was over, and D'Artagnan knew he had mere minutes of his young life left. Silence rang between them, even over the clamor of the fight around the two. D'Artagnan could see a satisfied look in Rochefort's singular cold grey eye and a thin smirk placed upon his lips as the man savored the moment before he pulled back the trigger and killed him.

D'Artagnan didn't cower at the imposing figure before him, however, he stood tall and defiant, holding Rochefort's eye like Father had told him to when facing death. He could see the hammer go back on the ornate pistols as if time had slowed to a mere crawl. D'Artagnan took a deep steadying breath –his last of his short life- and the world exploded.

An angry roar ripped through the deck, louder than the shriek of swords clashing. Behind him the wall was demolished with the force of a cannonball. Wood, metal, and other bits of debris came flying towards him. However, D'Artagnan was less concerned with the debris as a burning pain made itself known and flared in his side and shoulder. He tried to take a breath, and found that he couldn't for the pain. Rochefort's bullets had hit their target, even with the impact of the cannonball throwing off his aim. The world swam before D'Artagnan's eyes. It seemed a chore to keep his eyes open and he became aware of a hot trickle snaking its way down his back and side. A dark mist seemed to fill his vision as the pain flared to the burning of a white-hot flame. He didn't notice when his knees buckled and he began to fall, and was unconscious before his head hit the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

_LS here, wanting to thank everyone who has reviewed and alerted this story. It means a lot that you guys like it _

The sky sang with fire as the two ships battled it out over the northern regions of France. It was Aramis' idea to attack the large balloon above the black and red ship, and so far the plan was working beautifully. The larger ship was sinking through the clouds like a stone through water. A roar of victory arose from the three men (Constance having been hidden below deck to not poison her sight with the vicious battle) as they gave chase through the clouds. Athos kept their battered ship steady as they sank below the clouds and into the city of Paris. The men were surprised to have traveled so far in such a short amount of time, but kept the observation to themselves as they chased their prey.

The Cardinal's great ship sank quickly. Its bottom came crashing down onto the top of the beloved Notre Dame cathedral. Aramis growled at the destruction of so lovely and holy a place. Richelieu's ship didn't stay down for long, however. Cannons, barrels, and assorted other goods came pouring over the sides of the vast ship like a waterfall. The metals clanged off the stone of the cathedral, echoing hollowly and with a sigh of effort, the great ship began to rise again.

"Aramis! Porthos!" Athos cried from behind the wheel, "Stop that ship from flying!"

His shouts could barely be heard over the wind and clanging of the metal on the stone roof of the Notre Dame, but Aramis and Porthos did not hesitate to leap from their ship onto the crimson balloon of the Cardinal's ship. The pair plunged their knives into the fabric and slid down to the deck, effectively tearing huge slits in the balloons and releasing whatever chemical they were filled with to make them float. The two landed together and began fighting their way through the guards on board. There was only one flaw with the plan, the ship was still rising up away from the cathedral.

Athos made a decision. It wasn't a particularly good decision, or a very wise one. It would also get him in a lot of trouble with Aramis. It was also the only plan he had, so Athos decided to go ahead and do it. With a fast motion he spun the wheel left and braced himself with one of the beams behind him for the impact.

The two ships collided with a shuddering crunch. The weight of the two was enough to sink the big black airship and send it down on top of a spire. The sound of splintering wood was everywhere, and for a brief second, Athos thought that he might have killed his three companions.

Unbeknownst to him, all three were still currently alive, though one was in dire need of rescue. Aramis and Porthos fought their way below deck and killed and maimed indiscriminately. Blood coated their swords as they whistled through the air. Their minds were on the diamonds and not their companions as they cut their way towards the rear of the ship. They barely noticed the groaning and crunch of the other ship being driven into the one they were on. However, they did notice when a tall stone spire came up through the deck beneath their feet and kept on growing not even pausing before cutting through the ceiling like a hot knife through butter. The pair jumped aside and scrambled out of the way as the base of the spire grew wider, and less of the floor remained on the deck. With a shudder, the craft became still once more and the two men dared to move.

"What the hell do you think that was?" Porthos asked in the quiet that followed.

"I believe our Athos thought we were not sinking this ship as quickly as we possibly could have and decided to take actions he deemed necessary for the success of the mission," Aramis placed a hand on the rough stones with a contemplative look on his face.

"He's lucky that we were not killed," Porthos growled, promising retribution for the near-death experience was in Athos' near future.

"Very," Aramis agreed, "Or at least he will be until you find him."

Porthos let out a barking laugh that came from his belly and let his sword tip rest on the disturbed floor among splinters of wood. The two men let some of the tension roll off their shoulders for a few moments before shouts and loud footsteps preceded another ten guards that burst into the room. Their uniforms were stained with dust and small splinters, and were soon coated in blood as well.

As Aramis and Porthos continued to scour the front half of the ship because the spire had effectively prevented them from moving towards the aft of the vessel Athos descended by way of a rope onto the stern deck. Constance was left behind on the deck of Buckingham's airship, shaken from the impact of the two airships colliding and falling, and furious at being told to be a good girl and stay behind. She sat with her back against the still wheel and waited for the return of three heroes and one very cocky boy.

Athos walked across the slightly tilted decks in search for D'Artagnan and the diamonds. He would never admit it, but the young boy had grown on him with his cocky and brave antics. Unfortunately, D'Artagnan's safety was not his first priority. His first priority was to secure the diamonds and return them to the Queen before the ball that night.

His hunt came to an end when he came through a door into a ruined room. One of the walls had been blasted away completely and sacks and packages of cargo were strewn about. None of this held his attention however, as his sight came to rest on a figure in the center of the room. Rochefort stood there with a satisfied smirk placed on his thin lips. The slimy man had one hand outstretched and his fingers grasped the diamonds that were the objective of Athos' quest.

Athos' heart sank into his stomach. If Rochefort had the jewels, D'Artagnan had to have come into his usual amount of trouble and mishap. He could bear the sight of the disgusting man with the queen's precious necklace no longer and cleared his throat, causing Rochefort to turn and hatred to flare in his single grey eye.

"So, I didn't manage to kill you," Athos said with an impassive air, "You have all the tenacity of a cockroach. But they are easy enough to stamp on, are they not?"

Rochefort chuckled, "I may have the attributes of a cockroach, but your young friend did not." He made a sweeping gesture with his arm to the back of the room.

What Athos saw there made his heart seize in icy anger. Though he could not see the face, he recognized D'Artignan's body lying behind some displaced packages. A crimson puddle surrounded the boy and his skin was pale.

"He was just a boy," Athos growled.

"And he should have known better than to stay out of men's business." Rochefort smiled and fingered the hilt of his sword with his free hand.

Athos' own sword was in his hand faster than he could blink. Both of his priorities could be handled with the same action. Killing Rochefort would gain revenge for D'Artagnan and secure the queen's diamonds.

Rochefort's smile deepened and took on a malicious air as he drew his own sword with a hiss. The two men saluted in a mockery of a proper duel and lunged. The blades met in a ringing of metal and sparks flew.


	3. Chapter 3

_Wow, I never would've imagined this story becoming this popular! Thanks guys._

_You better like this chapter, because I wrote t instead of studying for a big test!_

The two men clashed once, then drew back. Each was focused solely on the other. Eyes scanned for weaknesses in the other's defense as they slowly circled around each other in the ruined hull of the airship. The floors creaked beneath their boots as they turned. It became a test of wills. Who would break first? Athos? Or Rochefort?

It turned out that Athos was in a more volatile mood, as he could take no more than a few minutes of the contest and lunged forward with a growl and his sword tip aimed for Rochefort's belly. Again, the clamor of the blades was short lived as Rochefort jumped back slyly and a gloved hand reached towards his belt, and the gun that lay there in its holster. Athos was quick to spy the movement and slashed furiously towards Rochefort's hand. Though he didn't manage to sever the bastard's hand, Rochefort wasn't quick enough to avoid the kiss of steel and blood trickled from the back of his hand. The calm look on Rochefort's face crumbled into a look of pure rage. His thin upper lip curled back as he snarled silently at Athos.

"You will pay for that," Rochefort swore. No man had drawn his blood in quite some time, and he wasn't about to allow this dirty, underbred Musketeer to get the better of him, or his blade. He retaliated with a quick slash of his own.

Athos quickly parried the blow, feeling the shock of it run up his arm and into his shoulder. Setting his teeth he rocked back and then threw his weight behind a lunge that Rochefort dodged. Ending up behind the cruel man Athos gave a quick slash that Rochefort blocked as he turned. Soon the two men were dueling up and down the ruined deck.

Their blades rang again and again as they danced a murderous waltz. Sparks flew from the intensity of their blades as they met, burning the leather of the gloves they both wore. Together they whirled in a fury of clashing steel up and down the deck, over broken crates and under splintered beams. One wrong move would mean death in this dance.

Athos' mind was wary. Rochefort had not yet shown any signs of cheating, but Athos knew that he did not have an honest bone in his crooked body. Athos became ever watchful of Rochefort's free hand as they exchanged blows. Any sign that the man was going for the dagger or pistol holstered on his belt and he would be a dead man. Rochefort seemed to be keeping a close eye on Athos and his observations, keeping himself clean of his favorite tactics until a time when Athos' concentration would slip and he could stick his shiv between the bearded man's ribs.

During the battle, on another part of the ship, Aramis and Porthos had returned to the upper deck of the ship after failing to find the diamonds or D'Artagnan to a surprising sight. Their airship (rather, the one they stole from Buckingham) was sitting square in the middle of the black boat. Underneath the hull the tattered remains of the crimson balloon poked out and fluttered in the breeze. However, what the two men found to be a frightening sight was Constance's very angered face leaning over the side of the ship to glare at them. She wasn't able to descend from the ship without what lay under her skirts being exposed to –what felt like to her-the whole of Paris. After a brief exchange explaining which way Athos had gone, the two men raced around the wreckage and descended to the lower decks as quickly as possible.

They entered the scene of the battle with swords drawn and were met with the clashing of blades and the sight of their friend locked in a battle with Rochefort. Another detail also grabbed Aramis' attention: The pool of crimson liquid in the back of the room by a shattered wall.

He quickly hurried to the back of the room. There, his fears were confirmed. D'Artignan lay on his side, one hand stretched out in front of him, the other scant centimeters away from the hilt of his sword. Aramis slowly knelt before the young man, hands outstretched, almost fearful to touch the boy. The black leather jacket revealed no clues about his injuries and Aramis gently removed it.

Behind them, the battle raged as Porthos attempted to join the fray. The shouts grew louder, and soon Rochefort's pistol was firing.

Aramis was unconcerned with the battle raging behind him, focusing instead on the boy in his arms. D'Artagnan's head rolled limply across his arm and his hair hid his face. The cause of the blood, Aramis discovered, was a flesh wound by one of the bullets in the boy's right side, the other was a deep hole that went through D'Artagnan's shoulder and out the other side. Aramis held no hope for the boy, but habit made him pull off his glove with his teeth and gently press two fingers to the boy's neck. He waited for what seemed to be an eternity, but there! A small beat against the pads of his fingers. Aramis nearly wept in relief and murmured a prayer in thanks to God above. He quickly pulled a couple handkerchiefs out of his pocket and applied pressure to try and stop the bleeding.

"He's alive," Aramis called to his companions. "D'Artagnan is alive!"

There was a pause in the battle as Porthos sighed a breath of relief and Rochefort's focus was broken with a disbelieving cry.

It was all the pause that Athos needed.

As soon as Rochefort had glanced towards Aramis and D'Artagnan Athos brought back his sword and stabbed in forward, spearing Rochefort's cold heart on his blade. A silent gasp escaped the evil man's lips as the blade entered his soft body. Athos withdrew his sword and Rochefort's body crumpled to the ground, his one eye staring fixedly in front of him forever with a look of shock. Athos stepped over the dead body and removed the glittering jewels from the man's belt and placed them on his own. Only then did he allow himself to look over to the youngest member of their group.

The boy certainly didn't look alive. He was pale, and blood stained his loose white shirt. Aramis was supporting him, and Porthos kneeled beside them with his hands pressed around D'Artagnan's shoulder.

Athos somehow found himself in front of them. Porthos had taken charge of the boy and stood carefully.

"Let's go return some jewelry, shall we?" Athos said. If either of the other men noticed the catch in his voice, they didn't mention it.

_The ringing of swords crashed around him, and it woke him from unconsciousness. The first thing D'Artagnan was aware of was the biting cold that invaded his limbs and numbed his body. The second was the pain. Daggers were being driven into his shoulder, he was sure, and his side was being prodded with a butcher's knife. _

_He lay in pain for what seemed like the passing of an age. Unable to move for the pain. _

_Quick footsteps drew close, and a heavy weight was lifted off of his body that he wasn't aware of before it was gone. Warm hands lifted and supported him, and D'Artagnan recognized a familiar voice murmuring words of prayer, before a shout escaped those lips. _

_Soon, a pair of large, strong hands closed over his shoulder. The pressure they caused hurt, but relief followed as well. The hands were also familiar to D'Artagnan, but he couldn't move to acknowledge their presence._

_Another person joined them. D'Artagnan could hear the gruff voice say something, but he was too far gone to know what was said. The three around him were familiar, and he felt safe in their presence, and lost himself to the darkness._


	4. Chapter 4

_You guys are amazing! Thanks for the reviews, favorites and alerts! They make me feel better after a tough day._

_Chapters may get slower in the near future, as I need to apply to universities, get my horse under control (if I leave a big time gap, I'm either injured or sick, not abandoning the story), and hopefully get my drivers license in the next month._

_I hope I can keep up to your standards, especially those who have read the books, because I have not yet._

Getting the youngest Musketeer back onto the ship without further aggravating his injuries proved to be troublesome, as the deck of the stolen airship currently rested about twenty feet above the deck of Richelieu's destroyed one. Eventually, Aramis was hoisted up by Athos and Porthos while holding the boy because together they were the lightest.

Once they were on deck more trouble arose in the form of Constance. She was distraught and furious, and it took all three men to calm her down, or at least to stop shrieking. Her affections for the young D'Artagnan were apparent to all three and she was furious that she couldn't help in any way. She followed closely as Aramis set D'Artagnan down in an area relatively clear of debris and stayed with him as the three men tried to disengage the two boats from one another. She switched between silently fuming and running her hands through D'Artagnan's hair in a manner of comfort.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis hurried with detangling the rigging of the two ships so that they could hurry with getting the diamonds back to France and D'Artagnan to a doctor. Aramis had been trained for medicine before, but nothing to this extent, only minor wounds and illnesses to help his comrades when they couldn't afford or weren't able to see a doctor. His skills would be of little use here and he and the others knew it. He was glad to see that Constance put pressure on the wounds every so often, and that it would raise their chances of keeping the boy alive long enough to get to a physician.

Porthos detangled the ropes and threw them down to the wreckage below. The ship was now fighting to return to the air, and Porthos wished for it to happen as soon as possible. It seemed that now in the quiet, Planchet had decided to come out of hiding and return topside. Porthos rolled his eyes and ordered him to continue with the rigging, while he ran to D'Artagnan and picked him up gently.

"I'm going to put him down below" Porthos called back to the others as he moved towards the stairs. Constance was a blue shadow on his heels as they swept below.

"I should go. My assistance may be necessary." Aramis threw the last of the ropes and debris over the side of the boat and dashed after Porthos, leaving Athos to the wonderful company of Planchet and his own thoughts.

Athos gripped the wheel tightly as they rose. He paid little attention to steering, or to Planchet's excited prattling about flying. It felt like his fault that the young man had been injured. Like it was his impassioned speech that forced D'Artagnan to make the trade. Better off old and alone than young and dead. Love means nothing once one of the partners is gone. One hand scrubbed his face, trying to rub away the guilt, but it remained in the blood on his gloves and the dust on his clothes.

Down below Aramis had sent Planchet and Constance away, telling Planchet to make the lady some tea in a ploy to keep them away from they dying boy. Porthos he sent to see if the ship's stores held any honey to be used to keep the wounds from becoming infected. Alone with the boy, he peeled off the bloodstained shirt to reveal the damaged body below. A tiny valley had been scraped just below D'Artagnan's ribcage and had begun to scab over. The wound in his shoulder still bled, however, and the angry redness of the wound concerned Aramis.

It was a short, but tense ride to the palace. Planchet had done a good job of keeping Constance calm during the twenty minute journey over the city and to the palace grounds and they now joined Athos on deck as he steered the sinking ship into the open field beside the terrace decorated for the dance. Porthos had discreetly descended down a rope as they passed over the palace in hopes of returning the jewels to the queen before they could arrive.

With a shudder and a crash that tossed them all like ragdolls across the deck the airship heaved one last time through the air and smashed into the ground. There was a moment of stunned silence throughout the grounds before all hell broke loose.

Cardinal Richelieu was yelling for the musketeers to be apprehended and guards swarmed towards the ruined ship on his command. Athos gave a pointed look to Planchet and descended from the gangway, ignoring the black clad guards who had their weapons trained on him. While they were distracted Planchet and Constance disembarked and hurried into the palace so that Constance could go and meet with her mistress (and be out of the way when D'Artagnan was brought out).

Athos was preoccupied in his thoughts as he approached the Cardinal. He fingered Milady's message between his fingers and hoped that it contained what he suspected it did, and that the confrontation would be kept short. He worried for the health of D'Artagnan. The boy had been so pale and still, not at all like his usual cocky and cheerful self.

During his musings the king had joined Richelieu in the gardens and was looking on the scene with curious amusement which contrasted starkly against Richelieu's cold fury.

"What is the meaning of this," The king waved an arm at the smoldering airship lying in his gardens.

"My Lord, these men-" Richelieu began, but Athos was quick to think of a lie to save all their skins and interrupt.

"It's a gift, compliments of the Cardinal," Athos strode up to them. "Unfortunately, Buckingham spotted it on our testing run and decided to try and take it, but I'm sure the Cardinal can get you another one."

The king made a noise not unlike a squeal in delight, and Richelieu gave a tight smile and nod at Athos' words and looked like he wanted to hang himself right then and there.

"Excellent. What is it anyways?" Louis wondered, fascinated by the craft in front of him.

"Buckingham called it an airship, Your Majesty."

"Really," The king puzzled, "Why, that's such an ugly name. It needs something more elegant, more beautiful than that. I think we should call it a skyboat."

"As you wish, Sire," Richelieu spoke.

After the exchange, Athos handed over Milady's note, which proved to be quite useful indeed and was about to make his escape to check on poor D'Artagnan and help Aramis lift him out of the skyboat when the queen entered the gardens.

Athos thanked God above that Queen Anne was wearing the gold and diamond necklace around her neck. The king also looked relieved and told her how beautiful she was. It was quite heartwarming, but Athos' mind slipped back to D'Artagnan, and his deadly situation.

"I have heard that Porthos stayed in the city," Athos thanked the queen for coming up with a reason for the rotund man's absence, "But where is Aramis, and your young charge?" The queen's eyes scanned the area for the remaining musketeers.

"My Lady, they are currently still in the skyboat. D'Artagnan was hurt in our battle against Buckingham. If you would be so kind as to dismiss us for the rest of the evening to care for him? We are truly sorry to be missing such a wonderful evening that you have planned."

Athos had barely finished his request when Aramis came running down the gangplank and up to Athos' side.

"He needs a doctor now. I fear he is passing to the kingdom of our Lord," Aramis said quietly, but it seemed to ring louder than a gong in Athos' ears.

D'Artagnan couldn't die. He was still a boy. He still had to be trained in the ways of the musketeers. He still had his whole life ahead of him. The boy simply couldn't die. Not if Athos could help it.

And apparently, not if the king could help it either.

"Richelieu, get my personal physician to look at the boy," The cardinal bowed and left, his crimson cape floating behind him.

"You two," the king addressed Athos and Aramis, "Get him inside to one of the rooms."

"You are very kind, My Lord," Aramis said gratefully.

"D'Artagnan helped me once, I am repaying the favor." The king almost looked wise for a moment, but, "So tell me, what color was Buckingham wearing?"

The two men opted to recover their young charge from the skyboat instead. Their duty to the crown was over, their duty to friendship could now begin.


	5. Chapter 5

_Still haven't found the old battered copy of The Three Musketeers my family has lying around somewhere._

_Also, as I mentioned the possibility of injuries in the last chapter, I seemed to have jinxed myself. Earlier today I was thrown into a pretty terrific faceplant, earning myself a minor concussion. This whole chapter was written today, so please don't attack me if it makes no sense._

The group hurried inside and quickly found a private room. The room was themed in pale yellow, and open windows let the sound of the king's orchestra and the guests' mindless chatter drift into the room. None of that mattered to the two men as they placed D'Artagnan on one of the cheerily upholstered couches. Neither Aramis or Athos cared that the king's furniture was being ruined as they waited in tense silence for the physician to arrive.

D'Artagnan was in a bad way. His face was pale and short gasps burst from his lips erratically. Blue faintly tinged his lips from the loss of blood and the resulting struggle for oxygen. Both men worried for the life of their youngest companion.

Aramis kept one hand on the boy's wrist. He would claim it for medical purposes, but Aramis did so to assure himself that D'Artagnan was still among the living. He sat on a pouffe close by and prayed to God in Heaven to keep the boy breathing.

Athos kept close to the boy. He stopped himself from touching D'Artagnan with guilty feelings. His hand gripped the back of the yellow couch and the other was balled in a fist by his side. First sign that morality still lived and the world kills the very soul that embodies it.

Both men were lost when the doctor came stumbling in, followed closely by his apprentice who carried several large leather bags. The doctor was short and old with a close-trimmed grey beard covering a thin chin. His apprentice had a few years on D'Artagnan and his jacket was patched though his boots were new.

Imploring glances were sent by both Athos and Aramis in hopes that this doctor would have miracle in his black bag and that their young friend would be right as rain sooner than they could blink.

This did not happen, much to their chagrin. The man came forward and peeled back the dressings on D'Artagnan's wounds. The two musketeers felt a surge of relief to see that they had stopped bleeding. However, The skin surrounding the wound in his left shoulder had flared to an angry red.

The doctor poked and prodded with his stubbly fingers around D'Artagnan's chest, making sure the bruises spattered across the boy's chest did not conceal any broken ribs. When the doctor prodded D'Artagnan's shoulder he finally got a reaction from the wounded boy. His shallow breaths hitched as his face lost whatever color had remained in it and he grimaced in pain. Both Aramis and Athos' hands flew to their swords, though neither drew their weapons. They both had looks that could kill on their faces with enough intensity to make the assistant flinch and draw back a few paces.

After a few more moments of investigation, the doctor shouted at his boy to fetch him items from his bags. The boy complied and handed him several small pouches and a mortar and pestle. The doctor sat in a wonderfully upholstered chair and began mixing and grinding the contents of the pouches into some sort of paste.

"Your friend was not lucky enough to escape an infection," The doctor started and both men felt fear clench their hearts. The boy had already lost so much blood, how could he possibly fight an infection as well.

"That is not good news," Aramis murmured.

"Of course it's not good news! The blasted boy got himself shot! What did you think it was going to be, 'he'll be fine after a good nights sleep!" Athos practically yelled.

A silence followed his words. Athos sent each man (excepting D'Artagnan) a glare before looking the other way. His emotions had gotten the better of him. All the stress and worry about D'Artagnan, the jewels, and the fate of the kingdom had wound him tight, and he had let his fury loose in front of complete strangers.

The doctor was the first to recover himself. He stood and made his way to the boy while speaking:

"As I was saying, the boy has developed an infection, but I do believe that we have caught it soon enough for us to cure, and therefore it will matter little in his recovery." The doctor began scooping generous amounts of the grayish paste from the bowl with his fingers and gently applying it to D'Artagnan's wounds. Athos thought that the paste smelled something awful, but didn't say anything out loud. An inner monologue about the strangeness of doctors would satisfy him enough for the moment.

"If you could hold him up for me, Monsieur?" The doctor asked Aramis, the less frightening of the two, and mimed picking up D'Artagnan.

Aramis complied, gently lifting D'Artagnan for what seemed like the hundredth time that day and leaning the boy to rest on his shoulder. While the doctor applied the paste, Aramis took in the condition of his young companion.

Heat radiated off the boy, and pearls of sweat were beginning to mat the long brown hair. Aramis' heart went out to the boy. Nobody should have to pay so dearly for such heroic acts. D'Artagnan hadn't even needed or been asked to accompany the musketeers on their mission. Also, Aramis took in the younger man's slim frame. Muscles pressed against him, yet Aramis was also aware of the boy's ribs and collarbone jutting into his own soft flesh. It was not unusual for a boy of D'Artagnan's age to be skinny enough for his skeleton to show through his skin, but it concerned Aramis to see it in a boy with his amount of muscle mass and social status. Aramis vowed to make sure that the boy was fed properly under his care.

The doctor finished applying the paste, wiped off his hands, and reached into his bag and fished around it for a few moments, before resurfacing with a little vial with a greenish liquid inside and another carrying what Aramis knew to be smelling salts.

"I have a draught here that will make it easier for the boy to rest and relieve him of his pain for a few hours so he may be moved. He will unfortunately have to wake up to swallow it," He uncorked the vial of salts and held it under D'Artagnan's nose.

Still holding up the boy, Aramis' eyes began to water at the acrid stench of the salts. He could see Athos' eyes doing the same. The doctor had a sleeve over his nose, the lucky man.

D'Artagnan returned to the land of the living with a jerk followed by a whimper of pain. Athos couldn't stop himself from reaching out to run a hand through the boy's hair, only to have the boy's good arm (and thankfully his sword arm) reach up and grab onto it like a lifeline. Looking down, Athos could see the glassy eyes looking up at him with a silent plea for help. Begging for him to make the pain to go away.

"Wha?" D'Artagnan croaked, and was immediately shushed by both Athos and Aramis.

"You were hurt in a duel with Rochefort," Athos said quietly with a tone so gentle he scarcely believed it was himself speaking. Though he had no idea if D'Artagnan and Rochefort had any kind of duel going on when he was shot, it was worth the white lie to see the young man nod acceptance.

"Monsieur, you need to drink this," The doctor said while tipping the green concoction against the boy's lips.

D'Artagnan swallowed without complaint, but shuddered at what was sure a vile and bitter taste. The effects of the draught were soon seen, as his head lolled against Aramis' shoulder and heavy lids closed over blue eyes. Athos was all to aware of the grip D'Artagnan still had on his hand, even after succumbing to sleep.

After D'Artagnan was once again comfortably asleep the doctor began to bandage the wounds with clean white cloth from a satchel passed to him by his apprentice. Aramis then sent the boy to find Planchet and tell their portly servant to make up a pallet by the hearth for D'Artagnan. It would be best for him to sleep in the warmth rather than in Planchet's cold room.

The doctor packed up silently and left to find his apprentice, leaving the two men with more vials of the strange green liquid and his address if D'Artagnan's fever didn't break in three day's time. Athos slipped off his black leather jacket and tucked it around D'Artagnan's slim shoulders as the two men lifted him off the now ruined yellow couch and out of the palace towards a cart to take them home.

Aramis gave the man a knowing smile and Athos turned his head away in gruff embarrassment. If there was anything to be thankful for, Aramis supposed it was that the young man who could bring life to Athos' hardened heart had a fighting chance for survival.


	6. Chapter 6

_Started reading the good old novel! I made my dad download it to his ipad so I could steal it. Muahahaha! It turns out loose brains like being creative, so here's another chapter for you!_

_Please do review, I was rather saddened by the lack of on the last chapter._

The ride in the cart to the apartment was slow both due to the amount of people in the streets who gawked at their passing and the fact that time seemed to crawl to the two men.

Aramis drove the cart with a firm hand on the bay cob's reins and one eye on D'Artagnan who lay wrapped in a Athos' jacket and cloak on top of some straw in the bed of the wagon. In the rear, Athos remained with the injured boy, as D'Artagnan had yet to release him from his grasp.

It was quite a task for the two men, with the help of Porthos, who had returned home to wait for them, to get D'Artagnan inside. The boy had woken up once they had begun to move him, and proved quite volatile in his fevered state. He began to thrash in their grip, fighting with what little energy he had and crying out incomprehensible words in fear and anger. The situation went from bad to worse as D'Artagnan's fingers found the hilt of his rapier on Athos' belt and managed to pull it free. At once, the three musketeers scrambled backwards with wary hands on their own weapons. They all stood back as D'Artagnan made his unsteady way to his feet, gazing slightly to the left of Porthos' ear. He took one shaky step. The three men made a movement to draw their swords. A collective sigh of relief was released however, when D'Artagnan's second step forward did not go as well as the first.

His knees buckled and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he collapsed, nearly falling off the wagon and smashing his body into the cobbled street below. Lucky for him, Porthos managed to catch him before he hit the ground. The large man hefted the boy into his arms and Aramis hastened to open the door for them. Athos bent to collect the boy's sword and made a mental note to keep all weapons away from the boy while the fever was within him.

As he straightened, he noticed a crowd of onlookers who were watching the spectacle with amusement. He could hear their tittering comments about the boy. How D'Artagnan was 'weak', 'young', and 'couldn't possibly be a musketeer'. There were other comments about him being taking into a house full of drunks, but the comments about the boy's own worth were what set Athos' blood boiling.

"I think you've seen enough!" He growled with barely contained rage. "Be about your business! Go!"

He wasn't sure if it was his tone or his glare that made them leave, but the waves of anger radiating off him certainly made even the bravest cower.

He entered their apartment and slammed the door, shutting out the glances and the cooling evening air.

Planchet had made a comfortable looking pallet and was busying himself with making a warm and roaring fire. Aramis was getting a bowl of cool water and clean cloths from their kitchen and Porthos could be heard rummaging in his room on the second level. He returned moments later with a bundle of blue fabric in his arms.

As he spread it out over the unconscious Gascon, it became apparent at just what it was. The blue fabric was Porthos' most prized piece of clothing: the soft blue patterned cloak that he had saved up for with seven months of wages. The big man even went so far as to tuck it around the pale boy.

The other three looked at him open-mouthed in shock. It was as if Hell had frozen over and the Cardinal had openly declared that he was an advocate of the Devil. It was rare that Porthos even let another person touch the cloak, let alone use it for a blanket.

"What, he has money for wine." Porthos grumbled in explanation, then retreated to his room.

Planchet followed his direction, and opted to see to the horse and wagon still standing outside their doorstep.

Aramis began to bathe D'Artagnan's forehead and care for the young man, while Athos poured himself a glass of brandy and settled himself on a chair for what was sure to be a long night.

_D'Artagnan woke to the feeling of fire. It seemed to radiate from his very bones. Awareness would not come fully to the young Gascon and he struggled to get his bearings. A hand gripped his shoulder and another, his knee. This would have been comforting, except D'Artagnan could not place the hands. Muddled voices spoke overhead, and soon arms were sliding behind his shoulders and lifting him off the floor. The last time this had happened, D'Artagnan had been at the mercy of Buckingham's guards and his mind immediately placed him back in the fight that had ended in his capture. _

_He struck out with his fists first and knocked both captors away. A stronger force then gripped his arms and restrained him. D'Artagnan however, had many stubbornness issues and began kicking out at the captor. More arms wrapped around his legs and the full restraint sent D'Artagnan into a panic. He wiggled and squirmed until one hand came free. He desperately reached out for anything to hold on to until his fingers found the familiar steel of his blade and he yanked it out of the grasp of one of the guards. They immediately released him and backed away a few paces. Struggling to his feet, D'Artagnan kept his blade focused on the largest, knowing that although the largest was the slowest, the blows from him could kill him or knock him out in seconds. He tried for a witty, cocky remark, but nothing came out but a hiss. Forgoing the remark, D'Artagnan advanced. He wobbled as his foot hit the ground, pain flaring in his left shoulder and his right side. He fought to keep his sword tip level, but the large one kept moving around. He tried for another step, but this time the pain took over his senses and D'Artagnan momentarily lost his grip on reality. His senses began to fade as strong hands caught him, and soon the world faded out into nothingness._

The first thing D'Artagnan was aware of this time was the unpleasant pain that wracked his body. Groaning, he shifted a bit, and found, to his displeasure, that it made the pain worse. Soft voices that had been murmuring in the background came to a halt and a comforting hand was placed upon his shoulder.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos' voice was soft and gentle.

"No, I'm the milkmaid," D'Artagnan rasped, eliciting a chuckle from the older man. "Where am I?"

D'Artagnan struggled to open his eyes, and took in the slightly blurred vision of Aramis and Athos' tired faces and the orange glow of a roaring fire. Distant snores could be heard, and from what D'Artagnan could tell from his time with Porthos, the tall man was sleeping very well indeed.

"What happened?"

"That's the second time you've asked me that today, boy. I will not answer you again until I'm sure you can keep it in the sieve you call a head!" Athos' words came out a bit harsh, and the young Gascon flinched back as much as he could in the small pallet.

Athos saw this and frowned. He stood without saying another word and exited into the kitchen where the others could hear him rattling the bottles of liquor. After it was certain that Athos would not be returning while D'Artagnan remained conscious, Aramis once more struck up the task of bathing the wounded boy's brow.

"Sleep now, I'm sure your body will be glad for the respite," Aramis spoke in a low and soothing voice, and sure enough, D'Artagnan's eyes drooped and his breathing evened out.

Athos peeked around the doorframe and gave a small smile at the sight of a resting D'Artagnan before taking it back when confronted by a strange look from Aramis. Deciding not to pay attention to anything the religious man might be trying to convey with his eyes, he settled once more into the chair by the fire and let his eyes gaze into the depths of the flames.


	7. Chapter 7

_So far, I am LOVING the original novel. A few things in the chapter are taken from the book. One is the mention of D'Artagnan's mother's salve recipe. It stuck out from the books to me. Another is one of Athos' lines. The one about sleep and dreams. I think it was originally said by the king to M. de Treville. Don't quote me on that, as I don't have the ipad I legally downloaded the novel onto and then stole from my dad near me. _

_Anyways, enjoy the chapter._

A cry roused Athos from a light slumber. Startled, he let out a muffled grunt as he jerked a small amount and dropped the cup he had still been holding. The pewter goblet clanged against the floor as he turned to lay eyes on D'Artagnan. The boy had woken and thought to check his wound.

At Athos' movement D'Artagnan made to stifle his cries and turned his head slightly so the older man might not see his tears. Athos felt emotion flare in his the pit of his stomach and his heart at the same time. It was a mixture of disappointment that the boy didn't trust him enough to be open with him, and of pride that the boy wished to be brave. But as all brave men know: accepting the fear, and knowing when to let it go is the bravest act of all.

"Sorry, Athos," The boy's voice was like a whisper, "I did not mean to disturb you from your sleep."

"I no longer sleep, D'Artagnan. I sometimes dream, that's all," Athos said quietly, the last part almost to himself, earning a confused look from D'Artagnan.

Taking a look around the room, Athos deducted that Aramis must have retired to his chambers sometime during the night, as the religious man was not in the room, and his cloak was around Athos' shoulders. He took off the cloak and folded it as he began his duties to tend his young charge.

He sat in Aramis' vacated seat and placed a palm on the boy's forehead. Heat still radiated from it, but not as intensely as earlier that day when the boy had been delirious. Sighing, Athos stood to retrieve the bowl and a clean rag to restart the task of keeping the boy's temperature down. When D'Artagnan saw the damp cloth in Athos' hand he made a noise of disapproval and shifted weakly away from the not even remotely nurse-like man. The thought of Athos being a physician almost caused him to laugh, but as he was the patient, it only inspired fear.

"Shush your whining. It'll make you feel better," Athos put a hand on the boy's shoulder anyways in case he decided to try and escape.

"I don't need that. All I need is the salve in my pack."

"Salve?" Athos questioned.

"My mother's. She makes a salve guaranteed to heal most wounds in three days. I think it may take a little longer in my case," D'Artagnan smiled to himself at Athos' skeptical look.

D'Artagnan made a shooing motion with his hands, and Athos left, still pondering the magic powers of the salve.

As he found the boy's saddlebags, he was suddenly hit with the revelation that it had been just a week since he had met the courageous Gascon. A week since he had believed in the drink in his cup instead of the love between himself and his comrades. It had taken the whirlwind of D'Artagnan for Athos to realize that bravery and morality still lived on.

There hadn't even been enough time for D'Artagnan to unpack Buttercup's saddlebags and set himself up in their lodgings. Less than a week for them to nearly kill the boy –no! Athos couldn't think like that. He had spent too much of his life being cynical, and while that part was ingrained within his soul, the darkness of his recent thoughts were too much to bear. The boy was very likely going to live and join the Musketeers and protect the king. He was also in favor with King Luis XIII. Not many young men could boast such standing.

The jar of salve lay wrapped in a blanket near the bottom of the pack. It was an unappetizing shade of brown, but it was labeled in D'Artagnan's own hand on the lid. Athos hastened back to his young charge, only to find the boy sleeping, his bandages still a mess from D'Artagnan's earlier attempts to check his wounds. The fire burned low and the dim light stripped years off of D'Artagnan and seemed to add just as many to Athos' face. Quietly, Athos uncapped the jar and dipped his fingers into the thick and gelatinous substance. It felt gross on his fingers and he grimaced as he peeled the bandages back the rest of the way to reveal the angered wound below.

Though Athos had seen many wounds of many horrifying degrees it was suddenly nauseating to see such a wound on someone whom he cared for. He stared for a few moments in gross fascination. He swore he could see the fabric of the bedding beneath the boy through the small and ragged hole. Swallowing the disgusting feeling of nausea, Athos reached out and smeared the cool salve over the wound. The skin beneath his fingers jumped and D'Artagnan woke with a gasp.

"Sit still. Can you not even stand such small pains?" Athos huffed, surprised at the boy's sudden awakening.

"Call it small pains when a bullet gets shot through your shoulder. I expect that it is only a 'small pain' that you are feeling for Milady's death," D'Artagnan snapped, and then fell uncharacteristically silent. Athos could see the emotions playing out across D'Artagnan's unguarded face.

Awkward silence stretched between them, like Athos' hand that had paused on its way to apply more salve. Guilt reigned strong on D'Artagnan's face. It was an open wound, and he had just thrown a barrelful of salt on it.

"I'm sorry," He hastily spoke, tongue tripping over his words, "I did not think, I-"

"Shut up, Boy," Athos growled, and D'Artagnan's mouth closed so fast he could hear the boy's teeth click together.

After a few moments Athos ran a hand through his hair and sighed. It was the boy's fevered mind that had let his tongue run amok, and he was sure the pain helped loosen the Gascon's lips. He reached across the distance once more and began applying the salve again.

"I should not have called it a small pain to be shot," Athos sounded weary as he spoke, and not from the late hour. It was a deep weariness that stemmed from his soul.

"And I should not have brought up Milady. Forgive me," D'Artagnan lifted his uninjured arm to place his hand over Athos'. Their eyes met and each conveyed the silent apologies before D'Artagnan leaned back and closed his eyes.

Athos finished with the salve and rebound the wound. He could have sworn the boy was asleep, but just as he was standing to retire to his own rooms D'Artagnan spoke again.

"Do you think I shall have a chance to get to know Constance more? She is one of the Queen's Ladies. But she does think me awfully rude. I think she likes those small, pale, artistic types," D'Artagnan mumbled with a voice full of sleep.

Athos could have willingly smashed his head into the doorframe hard enough to cause some serious damage. Did the boy really wish to have this conversation now?

"I'm sure the lady likes us rough-and-tumble types too. Now we both need sleep," Athos almost made it to the stairs before D'Artagnan called again.

"Did Milady like the rough-and-tumble types?"

Athos paused. His heart still belonged to the pretty woman, even at her betrayal and after her death, but he was sure that Milady de Winter could have fashioned a palace with all the men's hearts in her possession and decorated it with the treasures that she stole from the ignorant and was given by the hopeful.

"I don't think she had a type of man she preferred. Milady was not one to love in more than fits of passion, and I don't wish to think upon it any longer."

With that, Athos fled up the stairs and to his room. There, he let the emotions that had haunted him for the past forty-eight hours to take over, and he let out his sorrows in the darkness of the night.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hardest chapter to write… not happy, but posting it anyways, as you will not be hearing from me for a little while as I am staying with a friend for a bit, and don't see the point of bringing my computer. _

_Hope you're not too disappointed._

Aramis woke to the persistent sound of knocking that made its faint way through the wooden walls. He sighed when he did not here the tell tale fumbling of Planchet moving about the house. No doubt he would still be abed and snoring like a pig creating a lovely harmony to Porthos' own snores. With a groan and a grunt and a small prayer to God above, Aramis rolled out of bed and into something more decent than his nightshirt. He did, however, forget to put on his boots, and his feet made him very aware of the dawn's chill. The leaves would be turning soon, and the thick rugs of wool would soon have to be placed by their bedsides.

Stifling a yawn, Aramis pulled open the door to reveal the young Miss Bonacieux, her face rosy with the chill of the morning.

"Good morning," Aramis said, still shaking off the claws of sleep.

"Good morning. May I inquire after D'Artagnan?" Constance subtly peered around his shoulders for a glimpse of the young man.

"Surely you know what hour it is, Miss Bonacieux? Nobody else in the house is awake, and certainly not D'Artagnan with his injuries."

"But it is the only time I have to get away from my duties. I had to make sure he was alright. If he is not awake, could you give him these when he does," She produced a small bouquet of yellow roses tied with a crisp white handkerchief and pressed it into Aramis grasp.

"I will be sure to do so," Aramis nodded, and she said farewell in return. Aramis watched her stride up the street, her fine blue gown making her stand out from the crowd before turning around and closing the door.

Aramis' next move was to put the flowers in a cup and set it on the table beside D'Artagnan's cot, making sure that the initials on the handkerchief were visible to the boy. Then after that was done, Aramis began the task of kindling the fire once more into a source of heat for his cold feet. While he worked at warming up the house he kept one eye on D'Artagnan. The boy slept on, oblivious to Aramis' movements about him. A slight flush crept over the boy's cheekbones, but he looked at least three times better than he did the day before. Aramis also took note that his earlier observations about the boy's weight held true. To his eyes, D'Artagnan looked thin. Not unhealthily so, but there wasn't nearly enough meat on his bones for any physical work. Aramis speculated a plot to feed the boy more, involving Porthos and his share of each meal. The man would probably give most of his supper away if Aramis made the suggestion that his figure was unattractive.

Aramis prayed for forgiveness for his plot, and then devised how to put it into action.

Peeling back the bandages about the shoulder and the waist, Aramis was about to start checking D'Artagnan's wounds when Planchet entered the kitchen noisily and distractingly.

A cup clanged from the countertop as Planchet knocked it with his wandering hand while he moved about the small room. He was half awake as he started the rituals of making breakfast.

"Planchet!" Aramis called, just loud enough to be heard without waking the boy.

"Monsieur! What is it?" Planchet jumped and then settled back into his weary movements.

"I think porridge this morning. I do believe it will be one of the only things D'Artagnan could manage right now. And for Heaven's sake, do not cook Porthos the last of the bacon," Aramis put his plan of feeding the boy into action.

"As you wish," Planchet busied himself in the task. "But since there's more of you to look after now, will I be getting a raise?"

"You should discuss the matter with Porthos. I'm sure he will listen to your cause."

In the kitchen Aramis could hear the servant curse and could picture the pout on the man's face. He smiled to himself, and finding his cloak on the chair by D'Artagnan, wrapped it about himself and settled into the chair. His foot hit something as he sat down, and when Aramis picked it up he discovered a small jar. It was labeled as a healing salve in D'Artagnan's slightly untidy writing. Curious, Aramis opened it and sniffed.

His first reaction was to flinch back as a strong, bitter smell assaulted his nose. He rocked back and flung a hand into D'Artagnan's stomach, causing the boy to jolt awake with a piercing cry of pain. This in turn caused a loud crashing to come from the kitchen as Planchet dropped the dishes he held and two bangs as Porthos and Athos were rudely awakened.

Aramis paid the noises of his servant and friends, immediately turning his attention to the boy in the pallet beside him who was rapidly going through shades of pasty white and into greenish territory.

"I don't feel so good," D'Artagnan murmured before curling in on himself, whimpering as the wounds in his shoulder and sides pulled.

Aramis could see the still undressed wounds begin to bleed slowly again. Pulling out a handkerchief he dabbed at the blood as Athos and Porthos came rushing down the stairs.

"What is going-"

"My cloak!" Porthos cut off Athos and made a move forward but a glare from Aramis made him stop and rethink the situation.

Both Athos and Porthos made their way over to D'Artagnan cautiously. Aramis was busy unfurling their charge to relieve the strain of the wounds. D'Artagnan's face was whiter than chalk and twisted in pain, but no sound left his lips. He had bitten his lower lip to prevent himself from crying out in pain and the small trickle of blood from between his pale lips softened all three men's hearts.

The three remained silent as D'Artagnan collected himself. Planchet broke that silence as he came in bearing bowls of porridge topped with a dash of cream and honey. The musketeers had long since agreed that they preferred a bit of sweetness to defending their manhood in all respects.

All four accepted their bowls quietly and began to eat. It was quiet, but Aramis was pleased to see that D'Artagnan's color was improving and he was a decent ways through his bowl. He also noticed when D'Artagnan spied the cup of yellow roses and the giveaway handkerchief and watched the boy smile to himself with glee.

'Ah, to be young and in love,' Thought he, and dug into his porridge.


	9. Chapter 9

_Now this chapter is much more up my alley for writing. I hope you guys like it as much as I liked writing it. _

_Why do we whump poor D'Artagnan? The poor boy deserves a break, but I can't give it to him in this story. _

_Anywho, enjoy!_

A few weeks past, and D'Artagnan was beginning to feel sick of his forced confinement to the pallet in the kitchen. Every time he would try to get up for a reason other than the toilet Porthos would push him back down with some sort of offhand comment, Aramis would worry and then say a prayer for D'Artagnan's health to guilt him back into bed, and Athos would growl and behave like a mother bear with a thorn in its paw: grumbling and angered, but concerned nonetheless. It was honoring to know the men had begun to care for him so much so quickly, but D'Artagnan was itching to get out of the apartment for some fresh air. Also, he had a handkerchief to return and some sweet words to give to Constance. Love, or rather his chance at love, was way more important than the pain that still radiated from his left shoulder and the healing hole in his flesh.

D'Artagnan waited until the musketeers had gone on their watch to slip his feet into his boots, place his sword at his waist, and make his cautious way out of the apartment. He was just about to open the door and was still shrugging on his jacket when Planchet burst in. The door caught D'Artagnan's chin with a crack. The next few moments were of Planchet worrying over his young master and D'Artagnan cupping his face in his hands. Until D'Artagnan got a wonderfully wicked idea.

"Planchet!" D'Artagnan barked, and the round man snapped to attention. "I will forgive you this once if, and only if, you do not breathe a word of my leaving to the others. You do, and I will never forgive you."

It may have been childish. It may have been slightly idiotic. But D'Artagnan was now quite confident he would be safe from Porthos, Aramis, and God forbid, Athos from finding out he had escaped their healing clutches. And with his threat, he walked out of the house and down the road, his pace slow but his head held high. He was finally out of that blasted house, and the brisk cool of fall made him feel alive when he breathed in its chill.

He started up for the palace with an ambling gate, cautious not to pull the almost healed tear in his side and not to knock his shoulder into any passerby. It took an agonizing amount of time to reach the palace as compared to D'Artagnan's pace on a normal day. He clenched the handkerchief in his hand a bit tighter. C.B. Those initials were what kept his steady pace aimed at the castle. It was also a bit of a shock to find out how weak he had let himself become over the past few weeks. He was supposed to be having grand adventures and learning life's lessons, not playing the invalid and playing of the empathy and pity of his newfound friends. Perhaps he was simply a burden on them, he certainly was a burden financially. But what if they simply let him stay because he had been injured under their watch and felt guilty.

The past few weeks D'Artagnan had harbored these thoughts and they had cooked with the fever in his mind, becoming darker thoughts and leaving him unsure in the presence of the other musketeers.

D'Artagnan finally made his way to the servant's entrance, concealed along the side of the grand palace. He knocked three times, and waited. Soon, a man not much older than himself opened the door and revealed a revolting orange outfit of King Louis XIII's ugliest livery. Suppressing a grimace D'Artagnan asked for Miss Bonacieux and the man bounced away with the orange feathers in his cap bouncing as well.

D'Artagnan dearly hoped that orange was not going to be made fashionable by the king. It was horrendous on most people and most definitely did not suit himself. Fortunately D'Artagnan didn't have to contemplate the horrors of the color orange as the man came back, and the pretty face of Constance peered around the many feathers.

"Good afternoon, Miss Bonacieux. I trust you are well?" D'Artagnan smirked at the brief look of surprise on her face at seeing him up and about, but nonetheless stepped forward and offered her arm.

"May we stroll a bit? I was just feeling the need for a breath of fresh air."

"Certainly, my lady."

They both enjoyed putting on airs in front of the other man, who's ears had begun to turn red as his filthy imagination came up with his idea of 'a breath of fresh air'. D'Artagnan would have to fight him later for Constance's honor, but for now he was content to stroll with her and laugh at the man's expense. He was wearing orange, for God's sake.

He lead her down the path to the gardens where late flowers were in bloom and from there she took charge of their path, leaving his mind to stay focused on their conversation and keeping himself upright. D'Artagnan could feel his energy draining away and cursed himself for it. He had only been upright for an hour at most. He had to push the thought of falling out of his head, lest he do trip and not be able to get back up again.

"You left something in my apartment, I can only assume I am doing something that pleases you," D'Artagnan offered her the handkerchief, and she happily accepted it back.

"Maybe you are not so pleasing as amusing," She smiled devilishly and D'Artagnan felt his heart skip a beat at that smile.

"But amusing things are dropped quickly, and you are happy to see me still."

"Or maybe you still amuse me yet with your antics."

They turned again, but this time they turned into a path that was regularly patrolled by the Cardinal's guards as the path lead to his quarters. Neither noticed where their feet had take them, but two black and red clad soldiers did and their hackles raised.

"Oi, isn't it a bit late for you two to be out!" One called mockingly.

D'Artagnan shifted his weight and his fingers traced the hilt of his sword. His eyes glinted at the challenge. Beside him, Constance rolled her eyes and prepared to back off.

"Look, the boy wants to play soldier! Tell me, young whelp, can you handle a blade? Or did you nick your father's to impress your girl?" Both of the soldiers burst out laughing and D'Artagnan drew his sword. On a regular day he was sure he could have beaten both of the men easily, for they were arrogant and lazy. However, today he was not at his best, and exhaustion had settled into his bones. He prayed his fever wouldn't come back after this outing.

The men stopped laughing at the slithering sound of steel and drew their own blades, now angered by D'Artagnan's impudence. Both men charged and D'Artagnan sprang forwards to meet them.

He dodged under one sword and blocked the other from slicing his head off. He could feel his side tearing and the rough movements of his body jostled his shoulder painfully. Gritting his teeth, D'Artagnan kicked out at one of the soldiers who had his arm raised in a skull-crushing blow. His boot connected with the soft belly and the man fell as he tried desperately to fill his lungs with air.

The other soldier proved himself much better with a sword than his companion, and had the exhausted boy dancing on the tips of his toes to avoid his blade. D'Artagnan caught the soldier's blade with his own as he blocked it and slid forwards, meaning to pass and gain the open ground and leave the soldier with nowhere to run. The soldier, however, was one of the Cardinal's men, and so played by dirty rules. The man reached back and aimed a punch at D'Artagnan's nose. With quick reflexes D'Artagnan managed to avoid the blow that would have broken his nose, but caught it on his injured shoulder.

Pain, utter pain ripped through D'Artagnan and he broke the first rule of swordsmanship for the first time in his life. He let go of his sword. The clatter of the metal on the path was soon followed by the soft thud of his body, though he couldn't remember when he stopped telling them to stand. All that mattered was the pain that was tearing through him. A high keening sound filled his ears, and it took him a few moments to realize the sound was coming from himself.

"What did you do?" The guard he had kicked had evidently found out how to breathe again and he hissed at his partner.

"I just hit him. I swear!"

"He's wearing a musketeer's jacket, you know we aren't allowed to fight with them."

"And nobody will know it was us if we leave now!"

The two men hurried away from D'Artagnan, who was trying desperately to keep his arm attached to his body for it felt like it was being torn away slowly and painfully.

All he could hope was that Constance had gone to find help, whoever it might possibly be. He had noticed her missing while he was fighting the two men, and as he pulled himself to lean against the strong branches of the hedge he could only hope she had found help quickly.


	10. Chapter 10

_Ah, it may be short, but I swear it is sweet. Thanks for all the reviews guys, they keep my cold Canadian feet warm and give me the fuzzies. _

_To all the readers south of the border, enjoy your turkeys!_

_Hope you enjoy!_

It was something in the air that made D'Artagnan look up from inspecting the gravel path. It was as if the temperature had dropped and his insides turned to ice with anticipation of what was to come. The pain from his shoulder had lessened, but he still found himself unable to gather enough strength to get farther than sitting. He brought his head up to see Constance leading the three people he wished to see the least straight towards him. If D'Artagnan could have run, he would have been halfway to Gascony by now. Farther still if he had enough energy.

He felt worse at the expressions on their faces. Porthos looked smug, Aramis was worried, but D'Artagnan froze at the rage Athos wore on his face and that in his movements. D'Artagnan wished desperately that he had thought to get his sword before pulling himself out of the path, because Athos looked set to murder him.

"Boy!" Athos roared when he was still twenty paces away, "What were you thinking?"

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to start some feeble attempt at an excuse but a growl from Athos made his teeth click together before any words could escape his lips.

"That's right! You weren't thinking, when do you ever think? Never! I thought you might have learned something from your time with us, but apparently you can't take anything in through that thick skull of yours. Did you even think about the Lady? You could have gotten her killed!" Athos roughly pulled D'Artagnan to his feet as he raged and shook the poor boy once.

D'Artagnan felt his heart sink and his stomach begin to roll. He felt ashamed. How could he have been so stupid? His ego was apparently five times bigger than his brain and now he could see it. In fact, everyone present could see it. Including Constance, the girl he loved, and now would be shamed to stand in her presence. The three men he idolized thought he was an idiot and would kick him out of their lodgings and perhaps even run him out of Paris to be rid of his stupidity. Then where would he go? Not back to his family, for they would shame him as well at failing his goal of becoming a musketeer.

Tears blurred D'Artagnan's vision and he bit his lip. He was not looking in Athos' eyes, but the man would recognize tears if they started falling down his face, for there was no rain to mask the drops.

He could vaguely hear Aramis say something to Constance and he could hear the rustle of her dress as she walked away. He silently said goodbye to her, believing this to be the last day he would ever spend in Paris.

There was a stillness around D'Artagnan as he realized his legs wouldn't support his weight for very much longer. He had to get away with his pride before he fell on his face. D'Artagnan flinched as a cold hand brushed his forehead and he blinked into the worried eyes of Aramis.

"Your fever has returned," He said quietly and made a move towards D'Artagnan's shoulder.

Flinching again, D'Artagnan tore himself from Athos' grasp and backed away. The three men advanced, and the boy could swear he saw malice in their forms. D'Artagnan began to flee, but the prideful exit he had planned turned sour when his knees buckled with the lack of strength and he collapsed like a card tower.

Three cries of "D'Artagnan!" echoed behind the boy as he fell. None of the men reached him before he slammed into the gravel path and pain once again lanced up his shoulder. His good hand came up to hold it and D'Artagnan could feel the wetness of his own blood staining his jacket. The wound had opened up again. D'Artagnan curled in on himself and felt heat rise to his cheeks as his attempts to mask the pain escaped his lips and high-pitched groans tore themselves from his throat. Next thing he knew there were hands touching him, setting him upright and cupping his face and pulling off his jacket to inspect the wound. Half-hearted attempts to bat the hands away failed.

"Stop" Aramis commanded and D'Artagnan ceased his movements.

"Boy, you look like you've not slept for a week. How did you hope that your chérie would think you dashing while you look half dead?" Porthos rumbled in his ear as his strong arms found their way behind his shoulders and under his knees. With a mighty lurch D'Artagnan's world spun, then righted itself as the tall man rose with him in his arms.

"Wait," Aramis spoke, and D'Artagnan opened his eyes a bit. He hadn't noticed them close.

The thin man dug in his pocket for a couple of handkerchiefs and bound them around D'Artagnan's bleeding shoulder tight enough that the boy saw stars and made (what he insisted was) a manly grunt of pain. Out of instinct D'Artagnan looked for Athos, but the dark man was brooding some ten feet away and glaring. Their eyes met briefly, but Athos' glare didn't break at the sight of his charge's pained expression.

D'Artagnan felt his heart tighten. It was as he feared, the man he admired like his father really did want nothing to do with him. Somehow, the rejection hurt more than he would have thought possible considering the short amount of time he had known the man, but it hurt like a knife to his heart. Perhaps Milady de Winter had left her ice around his heart, and he was not going to let anyone touch it until the pain of her betrayal melted away. Suddenly it was very important that Athos knew D'Artagnan was sorry for being a burden.

"Sorry," He murmured, getting the attention of all three.

"What was that, D'Artagnan?" Aramis gently questioned.

"I'm sorry," D'Artagnan repeated.

"Whatever for?" Porthos rumbled.

"I'm sorry for making you take care of me. I'm sorry to be such a burden," D'Artagnan wiggled a bit and tried to get free, "You don't have to care for me. I will be fine. I swear I'll leave Paris as soon as I'm strong enough. You can be rid of me forever."

Silence met his statement and D'Artagnan momentarily believed that their anger was what left them at a loss for words until Athos spoke in a dangerously quiet voice.

"So you want to leave. So you would just give up on your goal?" D'Artagnan couldn't see the dangerous narrowing of eyes and glaring from the other two men, his eyes were fixed on the suddenly expressionless Athos.

"No, but I am a burden to you, and if I am to you, I must be so to the entire guard of musketeers," All of D'Artagnan's cockiness had disappeared and left the insecurities bare for the three men to see.

Athos heaved a great sigh and pushed his hair back. As if by unspoken agreement the party began to move down the path towards the city.

"You're not a burden, D'Artagnan," Athos was leading the way so D'Artagnan couldn't see his face, but he heard sincerity in the older man's tone.

Nothing more was said during the long walk home in the falling dusk, but D'Artagnan felt that this wouldn't be the end of the conversation.


	11. Chapter 11

_I know, I know… But applications are killing me at the moment. As well as a few other things. This chapter is kind of (very) short, and it may very well be the last one, unless I decide to include an epilogue. _

_Hope you enjoy!_

Halfway back to the apartments D'Artagnan requested to be put down, and Porthos gently complied. The boy's first few steps were shaky and Porthos almost picked him up again, but the determined look in D'Artagnan's eye stopped him. He knew that the young man would see it as a sign of weakness and did not wish to brew more resentment from the young man.

It was apparent to all three men that D'Artagnan was thinking hard about something, and from the look on his face, the thoughts were not good ones.

Dusk had fallen and laid the stars bare in the sky by the time they reached home. D'Artagnan made a move to escape the conversation that he knew was coming, but the three men closed off the exits and forced D'Artagnan back onto the dreaded cot.

"Now, I do believe we have some things to straighten out while Planchet makes supper. Porthos, would you go make sure that the fool is doing his duty? And perhaps while you're in there ask how he managed to let D'Artagnan get out of the house," Athos kept his voice level, though D'Artagnan could hear the traces of anger beneath his words.

Porthos complied with the request, and left with an evil smirk on his face. Teasing Planchet was one of the older man's favorite hobbies and he looked forward to this new round of taunting the poor man.

Now, it was time for Aramis to lend his wisdom, and Athos to lend his straightforward mannerisms to draw D'Artagnan out of the shell he had enclosed himself if over the past few days of his bed rest.

"It's better to tell us your mind now boy, or would you rather this conversation be had at a later date in a more unfavorable situation?" Athos sat on the stool by the fire, Aramis settling into a chair beside the cot. Both looked expectantly at D'Artagnan, but Aramis held a little more compassion in his stare.

"No, I do think I was wrong to have my doubts," D'Artagnan spoke a little too quickly for the men to believe him right away. They shared a look, and then Aramis took up the torch.

"Even if they have passed on for now, they may return if you do not face them."

"It's just-" A look from Athos cut off his protests.

"I feel like a burden," D'Artagnan stated simply after a few moments pause. Athos and Aramis were silent for a few moments. This had not been in either of their thoughts or Porthos' over the past few weeks. In fact, it had never crossed their minds, seeing as D'Artagnan had proved himself most capable of fending off attackers upon their first meeting. Aramis opened his mouth to argue the point but the boy got their first.

"I have done nothing to help. I have relied upon your good graces to get by these past few weeks and have done nothing to repay you. I know the money I had is almost gone, and I am not yet on the payroll of the musketeers and will not even be considered until I am healed, so I am going to become a financial burden before long."

D'Artagnan looked down at his hands and the two men sent him a pitying glance. The somber mood was almost ruined when Planchet's frightened voice came echoing down the stairwell.

"It's our duty to a fellow musketeer, and friend, to help when they are hurt. You are our friend, and will soon be a musketeer, D'Artagnan. I know the healing process isn't the best time for the mind, as dark thoughts fester with inactivity, but soon you will be up and about," Aramis laid a comforting hand upon D'Artagnan's good shoulder and took it as a good sign that the boy didn't shrug it off.

Athos sighed and put a calloused hand over D'Artagnan's. The boy offered the two of them a small smile, but doubt still flickered in his sea blue eyes.

"But I am useless to you," His smile fell, "I am even robbing you of a room in your home! I can't stay here and take one of the rooms, or Planchet will be sleeping on the balcony through winter. I also shan't be much more than a troublesome burden once I am healed, for I am much too young to be with your maturity. It's not as if I don't like you, you are my role models, but I can't possibly be more than an annoying parasite to your day to day lives. If you wish me to leave immediately I should think that Monsieur Tréville could house me in the musketeers' apartments until I get enough to rent rooms of my own," D'Artagnan's voice was soft and there was evidence that he was tiring on his face and in his posture. Neither Athos nor Aramis were quite sure of how to respond to D'Artagnan without slapping some sense into his apparently meters thick skull, but thankfully Porthos was there to save the day.

"Are you ladies still chatting?" He thundered as he entered the room, startling the three into alertness.

"Come on, we all want you to stay, and right now there's wine to be drunk and cards to be played," Porthos produced a deck from a pocket in his doublet and slapped them down on the table by D'Artagnan's cot. Aramis took it and began to shuffle the cards expertly as the tension visibly lifted in the room.

Three rounds into the game, D'Artagnan was fast asleep, his cards in his lap and his head resting on Aramis' shoulder. Athos insisted to himself he wasn't jealous of his religious friend. After figuring that it wouldn't be that easy, he collected the boy's cards and tucked a blanket about him. The three continued their card game quietly and well into the night with the content feeling that comes from knowing that sometime soon, everything will be all right.

_A few things to note: I may have been confusing in my wording, so here's my explanation before I get all those 'WTF does this mean?' reviews. . I try my best to say what I mean, but I'm not the most clear on things. D'Artagnan's statement "_I am much too young to be with your maturity" _refers to the fact that it can be awkward to be the youngest in a group of friends, especially when the age gap is so wide. _


End file.
